


The Reichenbag Fall

by fellshish



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Based on a Tumblr Post, Crack, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, crack based on some weird first draft of TSOT that might not be real, gymbaglock, this is what happens when you put all your angst in a gym bag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 15:05:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12015285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fellshish/pseuds/fellshish
Summary: Why return from the grave dressed as a waiter making fun of your friend's new mustache, when you can do it inside a gym bag?





	The Reichenbag Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Set during 'Many Happy Returns'. Lots of angst, grief, pining, and some gym bag jokes.

'You might wanna elaborate', the offscreen voice of Lestrade suggests to Sherlock. It's only a video, but it makes John's throat close with pure, unfiltered grief. He opens it all back up again with another sip of whiskey. Gold and yellow whirl inside his mouth, sourly touching the tip of his tongue, spreading like a reverse, burning tree branching out to his throat and further down – his heart.

It's been almost two years since Sherlock killed himself in front of him. His best friend, the man who saved his life, when, discharged from the army and back from war, no one thought he needed saving anymore. Greg Lestrade left him sitting here in his new house, to watch the outtakes of a birthday video made for him. It's mostly Sherlock insulting him. The good old days. It makes the corners of his mouth ache with a smile that never can be, never again.

'No, no, no. Only lies have detail', on-screen Sherlock says, and he stares straight into the camera, then something close to fear crosses his face. 'Just, I need a moment to... figure out what I'm going to do.' God, John had completely forgotten how much Sherlock's voice could sound like a hot syrup sliding down your throat when you're ill.

'I can tell you what you can do', John says, fumbling with his glass. 'You can stop being dead.' He puts the whiskey to his lips, stealing a quick liquid kiss. The liquor has barely reached his teeth when Sherlock answers, 'OK'. John looks up, as if slapped.

John swallows hard. 'Ok, I'm ready now', on-screen Sherlock declares. The ghost of the detective sits down in his old chair, the one John hasn't dared look at in two years. 'Hello John, I'm sorry I'm not there at the moment, I'm quite busy. However, many happy returns. Oh, and don't worry. I'm going to be with you again very soon.'

The door bell rings. John pauses the video, and goes to the door. There's a stocky man, pushing a form in his face. 'Delivery, sign here', he demands with a distinct Eastern European accent. At his feet lies a large gym bag.

'I didn't order anything', John replies, though he's in no mood to argue, so he's already signing off.

'Not my problem', the man says, and bolts. John stares at the bag. It's black, stained, and frankly huge. _Odd_ , he thinks. Must be Mary's, then. One more step toward making use of that expensive gym membership, probably. Preparation always involved buying very good sports bras, or finding sports shoes adapted to her slightly flat feet, or stocking up on energy drinks, but somehow never actually reaching the door of Equinox in Kensington High Street.

He grabs the straps and, believing to just be able to walk back in, is yanked immediately backwards. The bag is surprisingly heavy. Is it already filled with gym clothes, or more likely – weights? Like the gift bag of gym bags, or something posh and hipster. Right, Mary is going to get a good talking to when she gets home. He all but drags the bag inside, drops it near the sofa and sits back down.

After a few beats, John unpauses the video. The pale ghost of Sherlock tries to imitate a warm smile, endearingly so. He winks, stirring back up the memory of their first meeting. How cocky Sherlock had been, and like a schoolboy excited to show off his deduction skills. If John didn't know any better, he'd think Sherlock was trying to impress him. But impress him, he did, of course.

John restarts the dvd, to watch it all over again, soaking in every detail. He watches it three times in a row. Sherlock is like a drug, and he's always in dire need of another shot. These birthday outtakes will get him through another few weeks at least, even if it's painful to watch. It's at least something. It is as if life provided him with an unexpected extra, an Easter Egg, when he thought the movie had irrevocably ended. Didn't like the ending, either.

Did that gym bag in the corner move a little? Must be the alcohol mixed with grief. The only cocktail he knows intimately.

John wipes a little moist from the corner of his eye, gathers the ejected dvd and puts it back into its box. Mary probably won't be home for a while, but he wouldn't want her to catch him watching it. He doesn't think he can share this little piece of Sherlock just yet. She wouldn't understand, anyway. She'd think he was being horrible ('All his friends hate him, you only have to look at their faces'), when he was being lovely, and perfect, and no one can convince him otherwise.

Ok, that gym bag definitely rustled now, in the corner of his eye. The hairs on the back of his neck rise, and suddenly he's in battle again. He grips the remote control in his hand – silly, really, that won't be of much use against an intruder – and thinks about those Chinese acrobats who could climb into apartments to kill people. That gym bag could probably hold an acrobat, or maybe two, if they were really flexible.

John tentatively takes a few steps towards it. It's perfectly still right now. 'Silly, John, you're being silly', he mumbles to himself. But also out loud – this is a message to, well, the bag, saying: I know what you're up to. I could be armed.

The thing inside could be armed, too, of course. John swallows, and slowly reaches for the zipper. Unzips just a tiny little bit. The bag is unmoving, yet feels more alive than ever. He opens the folds, uncovering.... curls. Not just any curls. 'No. NO. It can't be', John tells the damn bag.

He unzips it a bit more, now, unveiling Sherlock's head. _Sherlock._ Who is staring up at him, very much alive, his eyes squinting, a tentative smile around his lips.

John stumbles backwards, suffering something close to a heartattack. Waves and waves of nausea, pure fright, disbelief, and even more fright wash over his body.

'No, you're dead, this can't be.' He crawls on hands and feet back to the cursed bag.

'Hello, John', Sherlock says. 'No rush, but I can't exactly unzip myself and I am in dire need of a bathroom.'

John gathers his courage again. Rage, he feels now. Pure rage. Two years. Two years, he made him mourn. And then... In a gym bag? Like this?

'Why, Sherlock. Why... are you in a gym bag?' Pushing those words out drained all strength from his body.

'I thought you needed a work-out', Sherlock says dryly.

John grabs his curls with rage. Sherlock flinches, fear crosses his eyes, but then he quickly slips on his cold mask again. He's resigned himself to any reaction John might deem fit.

'In my defense, I faked my death', Sherlock says.

'I know that much, _now_ ', John yells, anger and confusion boiling up and rolling off his tongue in shaky words. 'Obviously, you fucking cock.'

'Oh, that', Sherlock says. 'That, too. But I mean, I faked my death. In Serbia. Manipulated some thugs to put my seemingly dead body in a gym bag and send it, as revenge, to people who cared about me.'

'Oh', John says. Oh.

Sherlock tries to wriggle his right hand through the hole where his head is already sticking out, but only manages a few fingers. He can't quite manipulate the zipper yet, but he's been in this position for too long now, he's sore all over, starving, beaten, broken. Yet he shows nothing of the sort to John, who's now closed his mouth and is just staring at him. His breath smells faintly of whiskey, but Sherlock does not care one bit. He's free, and he no longer has to listen to John's heavy breathing while watching and rewatching that cursed birthday video. Sherlock feels liberated, even if he's still folded umcomfortably inside a gym bag.

'You're... inside a gym bag', John says, slowly pronouncing each word to test its edges for their absurdity. 'Inside. A. Gym. Bag.'

'Yes', Sherlock admits.

'A gym bag?'

'I thought things...', Sherlock says, 'Might, you know. Work out. Between us.'

Another pun? John snorts. This is absurd, and yet, so, so very Sherlock. The waves of laughter take him, now, they wash bigger and bigger over him, and Sherlock also starts laughing, his smile reaching the edges of his cheekbones, then slowly fading back to the start. And suddenly, Sherlock is no longer the cocky detective. He looks embarrassed, younger than ever, exposed – and John realizes with a jolt. _Work out... between us._ Not just a pun. Sherlock's face is slowly contorting into pain again. He's breathing erratically, and is suddenly in a bigger hurry to leave that damn bag, fingers twitching near the zipper, hurting himself, trying to get out in a near panic now.

John touches Sherlock's fingers, abruptly stopping him from trying to unzip the bag any further. Sherlock completely stills, and looks up. With one hand, John cups Sherlock's face, fingertips exploring the edges of his cheeks, the soft spot behind his ear. His thumb now brushes over Sherlock's lips, and John slowly lowers his head. He moves so close to Sherlock's face that he can smell him now, and it's glorious, to think that after all those months of – pure emptiness, blackness, – he can feel that skin again. Immediately he forgives him, how can he not?

Sherlock is frozen in place, he seems so vulnerable now, his lips parted in shock, a blush creeping to his cheeks. 'John –', he mutters. _John._

**Author's Note:**

> This fandom is amazing and I love you all.
> 
> Also, I'm on [Tumblr](http://fellshish.tumblr.com/)


End file.
